


At World's End (Another Begins)

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Alpha Derek Hale, Bad Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Creature Stiles Stilinski, Dimension Travel, Don't copy to another site, Dragon Stiles Stilinski, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Misunderstandings, Original Character(s), POV Peter Hale, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Steter Week 2019, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 03:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: If Talia were here, she would roll her eyes and say, “He has to put up with you. Of course it would take someone literally from another world.”But Peter likes to think he just has high standards. Especially since Stiles always gets so adorably smug when he says as much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompts:** The one where you have a compass on your body that leads you to your soulmate. + The one where you get matching marks/symbols/tattoos.
> 
> **For Day 5 of Steter Week 2019: Soulmates.**

Once upon a time, Peter had sworn he would never be one of those people who deliberately went out into the world and followed their Compass to their fated significant other. He’s always been the independent sort, and he learned early from his own family that love never came free, not for him, and that went doubly so from the very first moment he stepped into his predetermined role as pack enforcer.

He was fine with it. (_He learned to be fine with it._)

But it meant that he was also one of the few who scoffed at the very idea of someone born just for him, someone who would love him and accept him unconditionally, someone he could trust in return, and so on and so forth. Soulmate propaganda has always been idealized and extensive. Soul-Searches have always been encouraged, sometimes even expected.

Peter couldn’t really believe there was anyone out there who would want him, especially because he’s had his Compass since the day he was born, and it’s never turned grey either, which meant that his soulmate was both alive and older than him, and in all the years Peter’s been alive, they’ve never come looking for him. Statistically speaking, most soulmates find each other fairly early on in their lives. Peter’s an outlier even in this.

So, when he turned sixteen, he started telling himself that he didn’t care if his soulmate didn’t want him. By the time he was in his late twenties, he even believed it most days. He was a successful lawyer and the widely feared and widely respected left hand of one of the oldest werewolf packs in America. He didn’t need a soulmate.

Then the fire happened.

Looking back, sometimes it felt like he didn’t stop screaming for the entire six years he was stuck in his own head, burning from the outside and then burning from the inside too. In his most feverish, most pathetic moments, he wished his soulmate would come for him, wished they would suddenly appear at the hospital asking for him, wished they would stay even after seeing the broken ugly husk Peter had been reduced to.

But of course, they didn’t come. And even worse, Laura left. Derek left. The remains of his own family - his Alpha niece and his nephew - didn’t care enough about him to stay, didn’t even care enough to come back in any of the ensuing years. Why would his soulmate give a damn either?

So six years passed. He healed, for a certain measure of healing, and then he went and avenged his dead pack because it was the only thing he knew. He failed to protect them; making sure their murderers paid for their actions was all Peter had left.

(He still doesn’t know why neither Laura nor Derek could understand that, why neither of them could _feel_ that.)

And then he burned again at the hands of a couple of bumbling teenagers, at the hands of yet _another_ Argent, and his own nephew finished him off by ripping out his throat.

His last thought before the world faded to a flame-tinted black was whether or not his soulmate’s Compass would turn grey, and whether or not they would care if it did.

He came back a month later. Some days, he regrets it. What was there for him to even come back to? But he’s never been one to roll over and give up, no matter how meaningless his existence has become, not when there was still something he could do to fight back, keep going, _survive_.

And he did try. He had a second chance (a third chance?), and it wasn’t like he had anything else to do. So he offered his varied and extensive knowledge to the teenaged misfits that first Derek and then Scott called a pack, he gritted his teeth and didn’t complain when Derek threw him through a wall or bloodied his fists with Peter’s body, he took it as his due when Scott either didn’t notice or didn’t care and even encouraged every new member of the pack to treat Peter with the same superior contempt and wary mistrust that everybody else did, and he used his words to goad and insult and ultimately nudge them in the vague direction of their best chance at survival because none of them would ever do something if Peter simply _told_ them to do it.

It still wasn’t enough. Months passed. A year. Two years. And still Peter remained the outsider looking in, the omega everyone ignored when they could, the evil incarnate they only tolerated because he knew how to make himself useful.

More and more, he could feel his mind splintering, could feel that feral haze that’s never quite gone away ever since Laura and Derek snapped their pack bonds with him lurking at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to swallow him whole yet again. It’s made him slip a few times, with no stable anchor and no pack. Over the past several months in particular, he’s already killed three witches and five vampires and that one necromancer, all of whom had already racked up a murder count while they were here, all of whom were setting off his instincts because they were _dangerous_, they were trespassing, they’d already proven they were guilty, and Peter’s wolf couldn’t understand why they weren’t putting a stop to the threat. That was their job, and even if it wasn’t, it was hardly _smart_ to leave their enemies alive and perfectly capable and more than perfectly willing to attack again.

So Peter slipped, claws in one, fangs in another, and that wouldn’t be so bad, but he kept doing it in front of Scott and the others when he was dragged along for their “peace talks”, after Scott had - as always - insisted that they should talk it out, not kill them. He ended up limping home each time to lick his wounds after Derek was done… _reminding_ him that Scott was Alpha now, a _True Alpha_, and his word was law, and they’re supposed to be _above_ killing these days.

(Sometimes, it’s as if the stupid boy has forgotten everything even his mother taught him, directly or by example. Even Talia - for all that she advocated peace and diplomacy a little too much at times - would _never_ allow those responsible for so many deaths on her territory to _walk away scot free._)

(Oh gods, he’s punning. If ever there was a sign of his mental deterioration, he’s clearly just received it.)

But after the fifth time it happened, after he ripped out an enemy’s throat with the scandalized pack watching on, or honestly even before that, Peter knew it was only a matter of time before he was punished with something more than just broken bones and a bunch of pups yapping at him about morals. Somehow though, what they wanted to do still took him by surprise.

It was coincidence that Peter arrived at a pack meeting early, just last week. None of the bitten werewolves - not even True Alpha McCall - had trained their new abilities enough to pick up Peter’s heartbeat approaching the building, especially when they weren’t expecting him, and Peter’s never _stopped_ being hypervigilant around the McCall Pack, footsteps always silent, exits always in clear view, never allowing anyone behind him. The only person who might’ve noticed his presence was Derek, and Derek was occupied with Scott, deep in discussion about an idea that put ice in Peter’s lungs.

Eichen House. They wanted to stick him in Eichen House, something Deaton suggested when the pack went to the druid for advice, because Peter was clearly getting more dangerous, becoming more trouble than he was worth, no longer as outwardly obedient, and Lydia was a decent researcher, learning more every day, plus with Peter gone, they wouldn’t even have to go through him to get to his books anymore.

It terrified him. Especially since Derek wasn’t exactly against the idea. No one was. Why would they be?

He left as silently as he came. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s skipped out on a pack meeting. The others would be perfectly happy if he never showed unless Derek sent him a text demanding he put in an appearance.

He knew only one thing. He wouldn’t be locked up again, at the mercy of strangers, unable to even feel the wind in his hair or the moon on his face. He’d rather die.

And maybe that’s why he’s here now in his apartment, boxing up the last of the artifacts and heirlooms and poisons and antidotes and even money that he’d snuck out of the Hale vaults. His final petty vengeance on a pack he’s never cared for, a pack that somehow cares even less for him. Or maybe not so petty. There are quite a few things here that could probably help save their lives at one point or another. But it isn’t as if Scott cares all that much about the wellbeing of his packmates anyway so long as they’re not the one he’s currently dipping his dick into. Peter almost regrets that he won’t be around to see what happens when McCall’s latest addition blows up in his face. Theo Raeken, gratingly sycophantic in a way that leaves even Peter - whose low opinion of Scott could literally not get any lower - stunned over the fact that _anyone_ could fall for the boy’s transparent flattery. But Scott just soaks it up and welcomes the shifter with open arms, and all his little friends follow suit.

Ah well. Peter will be satisfied to know he managed to get the last laugh.

He spares a thought for Derek, just for a moment, a familial instinct ingrained into him since birth, but ultimately, Peter can’t dredge up even a kernel of regret regarding his nephew. Not anymore. Derek abandoned him a long time ago. Peter might’ve forgiven that, once, and blamed only Laura who was Alpha at the time. He could’ve even forgiven Derek for killing him, conceded that it was probably a necessity, and even vengeance for Laura. Peter could understand that. An eye for an eye. They were even.

But things pile up - every blow Derek landed on him after he came back, every time he took Scott’s side no matter how many times the boy turned out to be wrong about one thing or another, every twisted little smirk that looked so much like Kate’s when Peter was in pain, when _Derek_ _caused _that pain (Peter won’t ever forget his face when he held a blowtorch to Peter’s injury, genuine enjoyment in every line of his face as he burned out the wolfsbane), every sneering dismissal no matter how many times Peter saved him or one of the others, and every easy agreement to make Peter play bait, to risk his life before any others’, because he was the expendable one. And now this plan to lock him up in Eichen House.

Derek _knows _how packs work, how werewolves work, he grew up with it, and so he more than anyone should understand what the real problem is, what the problem has been for years, something everyone has only ever done their best to worsen. Derek knows and said nothing to help, did nothing to fix, never even tried and even _joined in_, and Peter _hates _him for that.

All the other things too but that especially - Peter cannot forgive.

Derek can burn with Scott and Beacon Hills for all Peter cares anymore. Their ancestors are probably rolling in their graves at what their lands’ reputation has been reduced to, the laughingstock of the supernatural world, but the Nemeton and Scott’s own weak-minded policies won’t stop attracting those who want more power to the town, and so sooner or later, especially with Peter no longer around to do the dirty work despite their objections, the McCall Pack will meet its end.

Good riddance.

He tapes the last box shut, slaps a ‘_Fragile, Handle With Care_’ warning on it, makes sure the runes on it are activated, and then stacks it with the other boxes at the door. The moving van’s out front already, workers coming and going as they help Peter move his belongings out. Most will be placed in storage, shipped to a private warehouse on the east coast. The majority of his scrolls and grimoires will be going there too. The only things he’s bringing with him are the essentials, most of which can be fitted into a single duffel bag. He’s even sold one of his cars. He’s just vain enough to keep the other in storage as well, but he’ll be making this trip on foot.

He glances down at the Compass etched into the skin of his left arm, a beautiful amber-gold with a delicate tongue of blue flame for the arrow. There’s a certain kind of humour in that, he supposes.

(All Compasses are different. Soulmates have the same one but no Compass between two different soul-matches has ever looked the same. And even then, Peter’s never seen a design quite as… puzzlingly detailed as his.

For one, most Compasses are at least circular, even if also intricately styled in some way. For some reason though, Peter’s is not only in the shape of a wolf with the compass rose tucked below its jaws in the curve of its throat, the wolf itself also has a pelt of orange-gold flames, and the whole thing is big enough to span the length of his forearm. Not even other werewolves have this kind of design, as far as he knows. Some might have a wolf’s head resting along the edge of their Compass, but that’s the point-- people have a Soul-Compass decorated with some small artistic hint around it that’s supposed to symbolize their connection. Peter’s Compass looks more like the compass rose was added as an afterthought.

The detailed piece doesn’t affect the lettering inside, each direction point still positioned in a circle with the arrow quivering and spinning at their center like a sliver of blue fire.

Right after he woke up from his coma, his Compass almost felt like a taunt at times. He’s fairly certain the wolf represents him, which means the flames are supposed to represent his soulmate, but it was also fire that burned his pack alive.

At the same time though, it was also a kind of comfort, if only because even after his flesh burned and melted, and then coming back from the dead, his Compass still remained, unmarred and as vibrantly coloured as always. His injuries and death hadn’t permanently affected it at all, which privately came as a relief to him. This, at least, was something that not even the Argents could take away from him.)

He makes one last trip around his empty apartment to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. He wonders if he should leave a note for when Derek inevitably kicks down his door looking for him because Peter’s already gotten rid of his phone and hadn’t bothered buying a new one.

He decides against it. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s had to pay for damages because the idiot boy couldn’t open the door without ripping it off its hinges or putting his fists through the walls like some newly bitten pup hitting puberty. One of his neighbours was even kind enough to call the police once because she thought Peter was some kind of victim of an abusive ex, which almost made Peter laugh, especially at the constipated look on Derek’s face when the cops came trooping in. It took some serious fast-talking for Peter to get rid of them without further investigation but at least it also served to keep Derek away from his apartment for a good six months, even when Peter ignored his texts.

So Peter would rather not leave anything here that would trace back to him if and when the landlord or even the next owners of this unit calls the police on the crazy guy breaking into their apartment. Maybe the neighbours might even come up with a nice little tale for him - they’ve all seen Derek around, heard the scuffles and objects being thrown, and werewolf or no, even Peter can’t heal instantaneously from a beating, especially as an omega, and they’ve seen him nursing broken ribs or a sprain or even a concussion more than once, sometimes at his nephew’s hands, other times because the latest monster of the week managed to get in a few licks. But his neighbours didn’t know about the latter and credited it all to the aggressive angry man who constantly broke into Peter’s apartment and never left without at least shoving Peter into a wall. For some reason, they seemed even more appalled when Peter corrected them and told them Derek was his nephew, not ex-lover, _yes, that Derek Hale, and I’m Peter, yes, that Peter Hale who was left alone in the hospital for six years by his only living family members and was abducted when the same arsonist came back to finish the job because she heard he was waking up and might be able to testify. My nephew is just… high-strung. Family differences, you see. Please forgive his lack of manners._

More than one person had given Peter sympathetic looks, and a few had even urged him to go to the police or offered to let him stay at their place for a night or two if he ever got word early that his nephew would be swinging around, but at least they were also familiar enough with Peter’s silver tongue that they hadn’t tried calling the cops again.

_All_ of them stopped by to congratulate him rather fiercely when they realized he was moving away from Beacon Hills. “Good on you,” they told him. “If we see your nephew come here again, we’ll tell him you’ve just gone out for a bit. Give you as much of a headstart as we can.”

Peter isn’t used to kindness, but if they’re willing to help, even if it’s over a bit of a misunderstanding, well, who is he to turn them down?

Petty vengeances. They’re more or less the only way he can still fight back these days so he’ll take what he can get. Besides, a headstart certainly wouldn’t hurt.

His finishes his rounds, toes on his shoes, and steps outside to lock up. The last of his boxes are being carried down the stairs. The pack still doesn’t know Peter is about to slip their leash.

And Peter. Peter has a bus to catch and a Compass to follow.

Once upon a time, Peter had sworn he would never be one of those people who deliberately went out into the world and followed their Compass to their fated significant other. He had better things to do, and enough pride to refuse to look for a soulmate who couldn’t be bothered to look for him, and enough of a heart to not want to risk confirming what everyone else liked taunting him with whenever he got too irritating - that not even his soulmate wanted him.

But now… He has nothing left to lose now. No pack, no real family. Nothing to tie him to a town that’s really only ever brought him pain between fleeting moments of contentment, and not even that much over the past eight years. Pain is an old festering wound to him at this point.

If nothing else, he’ll finally know why his soulmate never came for him. He’s old enough and lived long enough to acknowledge that perhaps his soulmate can’t come find him. Stuck in a hospital bed perhaps. Or lost the limb that his Compass was born on. It happens.

(Or is married. Or is indeed one of the minority who simply doesn’t want to deal with a soulmate.)

At least this way, Peter will _know_. What he does after that… well. He’ll decide when the time comes. And until then, finding his soulmate gives him a purpose, which he hasn’t had since he finished avenging his family.

He makes his way down the stairs, drops his apartment keys off at the office, shares a word with the movers, and then shoulders his bag, checks his Compass, and heads for the coach idling just outside the parking lot that would take him out of Beacon Hills.

It’s time to leave this life behind, and Peter can’t say he’ll miss it.

* * *

It takes him months. Months of travelling across the country, on foot, on buses, on trains, and back on foot again. He enjoys the sights, doesn’t hurry, but he keeps moving steadily northeast.

By the time he reaches the east coast, just short of the Canada-US border, he realizes he’s going to have to book a flight off the continent entirely. Judging by his Compass, he’s going to Europe.

* * *

(He picks up several different papers at the airport, while he’s waiting for his flight. He even checks the internet. Beacon Hills - even clear across the country - is on at least every other front page, reporters all chattering about mysterious deaths and teenage cults and rumours of an illegal prison underneath Eichen House, where patients go missing and are never seen again. FBI has flooded the town, and Peter knows he left not a moment too soon.

He wonders if this is how the world will discover the supernatural.

He wonders if there’ll be anywhere left to run if and when that happens.)

* * *

He lands in Paris a few days later and is relieved to see his Compass still pointing east. No offense to France - he’s sure it’s a lovely country - but the place that, unknowingly or not, groomed generations of one of the biggest families of prejudiced serial killers in the world is not a place he’s willing to settle in.

He hits Switzerland, and he’s more than a little perplexed when his Compass leads him to the Swiss Alps. He spends a week, then two, in a hotel nearby, even flying up to Germany before taking a return flight back, but there’s no doubt about it - his Compass is trying to lead him up into the mountains.

It’s just entering fall, so despite the cooling weather, at least there isn’t as much snow in the mountains as there could be. Still more than Peter’s ever seen in the entirety of his life though. He’s California born and bred, through and through. He does some research and notes the numerous hiking trails everywhere, still open to the public, with cable cars that would take him up part of the way.

Still, why would his soulmate be up in the mountains? Are they working in one of the resorts up there? Are they a hiker? Or is Peter’s Compass broken?

He dithers around for another week, but his Compass continues pointing insistently in the direction of the nearest mountain range he can see from his hotel window.

Peter sighs and goes to fetch his coat and wallet. He’s going to need some supplies if he’s going to spend the next who-knows-how-long trekking uphill along some godforsaken mountain path through the snow.

* * *

He ends up going off trail within hours. It’s not the safest thing to do, but hell, after the life he’s had, getting lost in the mountains doesn’t feel like that big a deal. Besides, he’s a werewolf. He’s not stupid enough to underestimate just how dangerous Mother Nature can become in the blink of an eye, but at the same time, it’s still going to take more than some snow and bad weather to kill him.

It’s sunny for now, the wind crisp against his cheeks, with no scent of approaching storms in the air. The scenery is gorgeous too, nothing like what he’s seen before the few times he went hiking with some friends back in university. The biggest difference though is probably the foot of fresh snow on the ground.

He keeps an eye on his Compass. He has no idea why his soulmate would be out here, no matter how pretty the mountains are. He wonders if they’re a shifter, or just a very confident hiker.

(They’re very obviously not in a hospital bed though. Peter tries not to think about what that might mean.)

The sun is setting when he considers turning back. But there’s a cave just up ahead - one he almost misses if not for the fact that he’s been following his Compass this whole time - and it looks dry and certainly big enough to camp in for the night.

It gets dark surprisingly fast up in the mountains. Peter barely has time to - very carefully - start a - very small - fire, with a handy pile of snow ready for him to dump on it just in case, before the last of the sunlight disappears, and an extra layer of windchill begins howling in the distance. Even Peter has to pull out his extra jacket before laying out his sleeping bag and digging out some food.

He dozes on and off for the rest of the night. He’s not comfortable enough with fire to sleep around an open flame, but he also knows better than to put the flames out. Instead, he curls up in his sleeping bag and listens to the croon of the wind, with the crackling fire flickering in his peripheral as he stares absently at the patch of night sky he can just make out from where he’s lying.

The crisply cold morning brings a silence that makes Peter feel like the only person in the world. There’s birdsong of course, but other than that, there’s not a single soul for miles around, and it’s as breathtaking as it is terrifying to stand on the ledge of a nearby cliff and look out across the mountain range, at glacier-covered peaks that loom high over his head, at craggy rocks and thick trees and the endless sloping plains in-between.

If nothing else comes of this trip, at least he’ll have memories like this to look back on.

* * *

He eats a quick breakfast before packing up. He gets a dozen steps from the cave before he stops and frowns.

His Compass is pointing-

He turns around and walks back to the cave. He stares at the way the arrow of his Compass is pointing straight inside.

Hm.

He dumps his backpack at the entrance of the cave since he isn’t going far, and then he spends the next hour attempting to figure out what his Compass is pointing at. He tries going around the cave - perhaps his soulmate is in the direction directly behind. It takes some climbing and manoeuvring but as soon as he manages to get a few steps beyond the cave, his Compass’ arrow spins once before pointing firmly back the way he came.

He goes back to the cave. It’s big enough for him to walk around in without stooping over, if only just, but there’s nothing special about it. There aren’t any graves or piles of bones, and even if there were, his Compass is still working, the arrow still spinning, and _not grey_. If his soulmate had died, Peter wouldn’t have even found his way here to begin with.

But it’s pointing at a cave, at _nothing_, and he has no idea why.

He checks his Compass again before following it into the cave once more. And then he starts knocking on the rock for anything out of the ordinary. He feels a little silly, but there _has_ to be a reason his Compass guided him here.

Besides, as a werewolf, he of all people should know better than to take what he sees at face-value. Maybe there are… runes, some kind of special wards in place that prevents him from noticing that this cave is bigger than it looks. Maybe there’s a spell.

Whatever it is, he’s come this far. He’s not leaving until he figures this out. And he has to admit, at least it makes his Soul-Search a fairly unique one. He can’t say he’s ever heard of anything - even in the supernatural world - that could interfere with a Compass, not even wards or spells. But someone could’ve created one, or dug one up from times of old. Peter won’t rule out anything.

He searches every inch of the cave walls, squinting with wolf eyes for carvings or writing, tapping at random parts of the rock. He even checks the ceiling.

But nothing jumps out at him, and by late afternoon, with the sun setting again, even Peter is getting disheartened as doubts creep in.

What if his Compass _is_ broken? Just because something like that has never been recorded before doesn’t mean it never happens.

Unbidden, he remembers Talia scoffing at his intricate Compass whenever he annoyed her, because they’ve always known each other’s vulnerable spots, and she would hit where it hurt, commenting on how surprised she was that he even _had_ a soulmate because who could possibly want to be matched with him?

And years later, Laura - when Peter rolled his eyes and refused to drop everything and play chauffeur for her or lend her money after she used up all her pocket money that week, just because she would be the next Hale Alpha and she _ordered_ it - growling about how no wonder Peter’s soulmate still hadn’t come for him, because no one could possibly _want_ to have him around.

Chips of stone rain to the floor from where he’s unconsciously dug his claws into the cave wall, even cutting his skin open a little. He sneers and wrenches his claws back, eyes flashing irritably at both the blood now beading at his fingertips and at where his mind went, pathetically enough-

-and then he freezes.

Because where there was only rock before now sits-

-a door.

A great big door that spans the length and width of the back of the cave, wrought from iron and set in a gold frame with a matching ornate handle that - upon closer observation - is shaped in the sinuous curve of a dragon’s body, the head of which faces him, fangs bared, head fins flared.

And right before Peter’s eyes, unfamiliar gold symbols etch themselves onto the door, ones that ripple themselves into English a moment later:

_Greetings, Traveller,_  
_You Have Discovered The Draken Door._  
_ If It Is Sanctuary You Seek, Or Perhaps A New Beginning,_  
_ Then, Come Through; We Of Wyvārnyé Bid You Welcome._  
_ But Do Beware–_  
_ Should Your Intentions Be Less Than Pure_  
_ And ’Tis Harm You Wish To Those Who Live Within Our Borders,_  
_ Turn Back, Traveller,_  
_ Else Risk Our Wrath And A Fiery End_  
_ For Mercy Twice Is Not Our Nature._

Peter blinks, and blinks again. The words do not disappear. He pinches himself. Ouch. But probably not hallucinating then.

He hesitates, then lets the spark in his eyes fade away. Plain rock replaces the door once more, although the drops of blood he left earlier are gone.

Blood ward then. Or some variant of it? And somehow keyed to a werewolf’s eyes.

He switches to his wolf eyes again, reads the words again, and then eyes the door with some trepidation.

It sounds… well it sounds like there’s a whole… _society_ behind the door, hidden away in the mountains. And with the dragon door handle and the mention of fire… Is this some kind of joke?

He doesn’t dare touch the door. Even if he doesn’t open it, who knows if he might be sucked into a trap of some sort just by touching the handle?

He paces the cave instead, stops for dinner and settles down for another night, this time keeping a wary distance from the back of the cave.

But his mind keeps wandering back to the words, to _sanctuary_ and _new beginning_, and something in him _wants_. Wants it terribly. He looks too at his Compass again, at the arrow pointing stubbornly at the back of the cave, at the _door_, the _Draken Door_, and his innate curiosity rears its head as well.

It could be a trap. But Peter only stumbled on it through sheer chance. Wouldn’t have even found this cave if not for the fact that his soulmate is apparently on the other side of a fancy door leading to who knows where.

He doesn’t like walking into the unknown. But this entire road trip has been like that, with no clear idea of the end, and what are his other options anyway? Turn back? Go back to Beacon Hills? Never. Settle somewhere else? Where? He has no attachment to any place on this planet. Not anymore.

He has nowhere else to go.

* * *

Morning comes. Peter packs up, looks once more at the door, and then leaves.

If he’s going to go through, then at the very least, he has a few things he wants to put in order first. He has no guarantee that he’ll be able to come back after all.

* * *

It takes another day to get back to his hotel. First order of business is a proper bath, followed by room service, because he does like his creature comforts.

Then he hears _Beacon Hills _from the television in the room next door and almost trips over the coffee table in his haste to scramble for the remote.

He hasn’t looked at a news outlet in a week. He hasn’t even been around _civilization _in three days.

Apparently, that’s about how long it takes for the world to go to hell.

Beacon Hills is… not quite a crater, not yet. But Eichen House has been cracked wide open, rumours of monsters have spread far beyond the town, the truth of which is being debated and argued over with increasing fervour every day. There’s also reports of men on horses that nobody seems to be able to get pictures of but many have sworn they’ve heard hoofbeats multiple times, usually before yet another person in that godforsaken town goes missing.

Peter’s mind jumps to the Wild Hunt, and he feels a chill go down his spine.

Scott McCall’s face has been plastered everywhere, along with all his packmates, including Derek’s, and even Melissa McCall’s. Wanted for questioning, on suspicions of everything from kidnapping to murder. Theo Raeken’s body was found, and the boy had no criminal record but was suspected of murdering his younger sister years ago - somehow, Peter isn’t surprised - so nobody’s shedding tears for him, but the cops still want to know who did it and why.

There’s a passing mention of Peter that almost makes him laugh, although it would’ve probably come out slightly hysterical. Apparently, his old place of residence was tracked down, and several of his neighbours have stepped forward and told both FBI and various reporters about the way Derek Hale treated his uncle. The local police can even corroborate that they were called once, although no file was opened because Peter “covered” for his nephew.

_“He wanted a new start,”_ One teary-eyed old woman that Peter vaguely remembers from the unit three doors down from his own says on the news. _“He was always so polite. Kept to himself, but he always carried my groceries for me if we bumped into each other downstairs. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt him, especially his own family, and especially after everything he’s been through. He probably refused to join their cult, and they didn’t like that. We were all so happy for him when he finally decided to move away once and for all. I do hope he managed to escape.”_

Peter just thanks every deity he can think of that he used a fake passport to get out of America, and a fake name and cash before that and ever since. Granted, it was because he thought Scott might send Argent or some other hunters after him, but this works out well too. The police lost his trail in Nebraska, and now they suspect he’s been abducted or killed by McCall’s “cult”.

Peter’s not sure what to make of being labelled an abuse victim. A part of him is somewhat offended, because he wasn’t one, obviously. Because it implies that he was _helpless_, which he wasn’t. Sure, Derek liked smacking him around, while Lydia preferred a taser - something she picked up from darling Allison no doubt, who was as trigger-happy as her aunt, even after she ‘recovered’ from her little psychotic episode, and nobody was going to tell her she couldn’t electrocute her aunt’s murderer whenever she wanted, never mind that her aunt was more of a monster than Peter could ever be. Peter can’t say he wasn’t glad when the nogitsune tore her apart, though he certainly wasn’t stupid enough to show it in front of the others.

But bottom line, Peter _let_ them hurt him. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve ripped Lydia’s pretty face off anytime. If he’d wanted to, Derek wouldn’t have known what stabbed him in the back until he was already choking on his own blood.

And yes, Peter did sometimes want to. But he chose not to, partly because he figured he did deserve some retribution for his past actions, and he thought they would ease up sooner or later if he made himself out to be weaker than all of them; mostly because he was omega, and that kind of treatment was par for the course in the more… stringently hierarchical packs that still deliberately kept omegas around as stress-relievers instead of chasing them off or giving them a quick death if they were beyond saving.

For all her faults and her differences of opinions with Peter, Talia never did that sort of thing. She considered the practice barbaric and cruel, and no matter the friction between him and the others, the Hale pack bonds remained strong, with no threat of anyone pushed so far that they would turn omega-- so Peter’s actually not certain where Derek picked up the disgusting tradition from, but Scott never reined him in, definitely never reined his hunter girlfriend in when she was still alive, and Lydia did what she pleased because it would probably be a cold day in hell before someone told her she couldn’t do something. The others took their cues from that, and Peter resigned himself to tolerating it all. New Alpha, new management - he adapted, if only to survive, and as a werewolf, he could take a lot more punishment than the average human. He needed a pack, needed at least the most basic, superfluous of pack bonds to leech off of so he could keep his sanity, and a part of him thought - so, _so _stupidly, on hindsight - that things might get better once he proved his loyalty.

What a waste of two years of his life. He still has no pack these days, but he’s managed to anchor himself with his Soul-Search, and at least for now, it seems to be enough for his wolf. He actually feels _more_ mentally stable now than he ever did in all the time he spent clinging onto the flimsy bonds of first Derek’s then McCall’s pack.

He tunes back in to the TV again, listening with half an ear. Ah well. At the very least, _Peter Hale: Abuse Victim_ would surely piss Derek off. Probably the others too.

If they’re still alive, that is. Because Lydia isn’t. They dug her out of Eichen House just a week ago, strapped to a table with a hole in her head, confirmed dead, her own mother arrested for possible aiding and abetting of all things.

Peter listens to that report and feels… nothing. Lydia hated him, and Peter acknowledged her right to it and never truly raised a hand against her again no matter what she did to him. But likewise, she certainly hadn’t endeared herself to him in any way, and the only thing he spares for her death is distracted speculation over how she ended up in that nuthouse-cum-prison in the first place.

It was probably something stupid, and also McCall’s fault. Most things that’ve gone wrong in that town since Peter fucked up and bit McCall usually led back to those two points.

It hardly matters in the end. Peter’s washed his hands of them, thank the moon. And he has bigger problems to worry about, namely what he’s going to do when the supernatural is outed to the rest of the world, because he can’t see how anyone will be able to cover up this clusterfuck of a trainwreck anymore.

He thinks of the door up in the mountains. Thinks of _sanctuary_ and _new beginning_, and hell, isn’t that exactly what he needs now?

He switches off the TV and takes a few minutes to close his eyes and simply breathe. He weighs the pros (soulmate, potential safety, a new life) against the cons (possible death).

Then he opens his eyes and gets to his feet.

He’s come this far. There’s no point turning back now.

And the threat of death has never stopped him, not when he thinks his goal is worth the risk.


	2. Chapter 2

Quietly and carefully, Peter has most of his belongings shipped over as quickly as possible. He can’t bring his remaining Shelby 1000 Cobra along, which makes something in his soul want to weep, but sacrifices must be made in the name of self-preservation. He hopes whoever eventually gets their hands on his car will at least take good care of it.

As soon as his books and family heirlooms arrive, he begins sorting through them. He buys half a dozen extra bags and ruins four of them before he gets the expansion runes right, and even then, he’s going to have to use three bags to fit everything. It’s fortunate he’s a werewolf. There’s no way he could lug all this stuff up a mountain without supernatural strength.

Clothes are next. He doesn’t add too many to what he already has. He figures if there really is a whole society behind that door, there’s bound to be places he can buy or trade more clothes from. If not, well, he can always figure out how to sew.

Then food. He replenishes what he ate from his first trip up. Water too. A small set of tableware and cookware goes in. Toiletries follow. Towels as well.

Money last. He converts most of it into cash because he highly doubts wherever he’s going will take MasterCard, but - if they don’t use the barter system - then cash might work, or he might be able to find a way to convert the stuff into whatever currency they use.

He’s probably going to look like a lunatic carrying all this onto the cable car when he’s supposed to be _hiking_, but needs must. At least nobody will actually know what’s _in_ the bags.

He adds a photo album of his family, one that survived the fire with only one corner singed, the only piece of sentiment he allows himself. For all that he hardly got along with most of his pack most of the time, he still loved them, and in their own way, they loved him. Not as much as they should have, perhaps, but they did. And they weren’t always at odds with each other. They had some good times, and no matter what any of them became, Peter can at least remember their better moments fondly.

He keeps an eye on the news all the while, waiting for the storm to break. The day _Gerard Argent_ \- upright and healthy because apparently McCall _healed him_ and then threatened him to “further his own agenda”, except Gerard bravely refused and managed to get away— the day he appears on TV with the president of the United States to publicly confirm the existence of monsters, Peter knows it’s time to go.

He wishes this world good luck. It’s going to need it.

* * *

He’s almost afraid the door won’t be there when he reaches the cave again, but to his relief, with wolf eyes already glowing, he finds it waiting for him, the words still engraved in the iron.

Something a little like excitement and a little like apprehension coils in his gut as he stares at the door handle.

_What if it’s all a joke?_

_What if it’s a trap?_

_What if this is how he dies?_

And yet…

He looks at his Compass one last time, still in full colour, the arrow an unwavering guide.

He straightens, reaches for the handle, and pulls the door open.

* * *

Good news - he isn’t struck dead on the spot. Bad news - the open door reveals a tunnel so long that Peter can’t even see anything that might signal an end.

He glances behind him. There’s a storm rolling in - the winds are already picking up, and snow has been falling since he got high enough into the mountains.

He heaves a sigh. At least the tunnel is dry.

He shucks off his jacket before he enters, tying it to one of his bags instead. He’d rather be as unhampered as possible if he ends up having to fight.

He eyes the tunnel warily for a moment longer before taking his first cautious step inside. An invisible wind ruffles his hair, and something tingles in his nose in a way that makes him want to sneeze.

He wants to keep the door open, if only for some light to see by, but within five steps, the tunnel goes dark, and when he spins around, the doorway is simply gone, leaving only solid rock in its place, even through Peter’s wolf eyes. The door didn’t even have the decency to slam shut behind him like every horror movie ever made.

He huffs, pushing down his uneasiness at the situation. No point panicking. Only way is forward now.

The tunnel seems endless. It’s big enough that he can walk freely, even while carrying his luggage in each hand. And there aren’t any turns or even slopes to blindside him or trip him up. He walks for what feels like hours, trying to catch a glimpse of anything other than the pitch black all around him that sometimes makes the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. He’s an idiot for forgetting a damn flashlight but he’d thought his wolf eyes would be enough. Clearly not.

Still, he breathes through the discomfort and presses on, taking a few ten-minute-or-so breaks whenever he tires. The intermittent rustle of sound helps, coming from nowhere and everywhere like whispered words he can’t quite make out.

He almost doesn’t notice the change, when a faint breeze picks up, steadily strengthening into something that tugs playfully at his clothes and even buffets him a little so that he has to start bracing his steps, until finally - just barely - a pinprick of light opens up in the far distance, tiny but so suddenly bright in the previous darkness that it makes his eyes water for a moment.

He feels like he gets a second wind at the sight, at knowing that he hasn’t actually been doomed to walk through a never-ending tunnel, and his pace quickens accordingly. The ground begins to slant upwards, just a little, leading towards the growing light as the wind gets even stronger.

He wonders if Alice would’ve felt like this, going down the rabbit hole.

He hits perhaps the ten-feet mark from the tunnel’s exit, and all at once, an explosion of sound rushes up to meet him. Voices, he thinks, even though he can’t make out any words, but also sounds that remind him of running water, and somewhere in the distance, something _roars_.

His strides slow as the exit draws near. Three feet, two feet, one, and then-

-he steps through.

And the world that greets him takes his breath away.

* * *

_Why is there a sky in the mountain?_ Is his first thought, because yes, that is very much a sky up above, summer blue with white clouds floating lazily by, stretching as far as the eye can see.

_Maybe it’s an illusion,_ he thinks a bit helplessly, but honestly, that’s the least of the things that’s making him feel like he’s halfway gone into shock.

He’s stepped out onto a ledge of what seems to be a mountain. There’s a good twenty feet before the edge drops away so he’s in no danger of falling, and yet he feels a little like he should sit down anyway.

He drops the bags in his hands and slowly shrugs out of his backpack as well, never taking his eyes off the sky. Because far, far above him, in all different shapes and colours and probably sizes, although the distance makes it impossible to gauge, are unmistakably _dragons_.

The roaring noise he heard earlier trumpets through the skies again, and this time he knows what it’s from.

_Dragons._

A part of him can’t believe it, even though he did guess as much, from the door and the message both. Every book about this species that Peter has ever come across says the same things - that dragons are either extinct, or they never existed to begin with. It isn’t too far-fetched that they might’ve been wrong, that dragons simply went into hiding and faded from living memory, but Peter also expected… well, he didn’t expect _this_. Even if there were dragons in the mountains, he just figured they would be curled up in large caverns, their home a string of caves perhaps, maybe with piles of gold everywhere.

But this. This is something else entirely. Peter spots a group of dragons - most of them red - flying overhead in a diamond formation. They bank left and continue on until they disappear from Peter’s sight. Another dragon - smaller, blue - dives from the skies, wings snapping out to slow its descent before landing on a terrace-like platform that juts out from one of the buildings.

Because yes, there are buildings, castles really, bigger than anything Peter’s ever seen, with sprawling terraces and spiraling towers and wide stone bridges that connect them, built into the various rock formations and surrounded by gigantic lush forests and bodies of water.

He swallows hard and sidles closer to the edge. Not _just_ forests and water. That- That is definitely a town down below, with actual people, or at least Peter assumes they’re people. They look like black dots to him from this far up, and what he presumes are houses and shops are little better, but even from this high, his bird’s-eye view very clearly shows him a distinctly town-like formation.

He looks out again across this- this _world_, half in wonder, half in disbelief. Because it _is_ a whole world, somehow hidden away but flourishing, where dragons are free to fly in an open sky without fear of being shot down and imprisoned or dissected or killed, and Peter has no idea how any of this is possible.

He rolls up his sleeve, and of course, his Compass is still there, still pointing somewhere ahead, because apparently his soulmate lives in a secret society no supernatural creature - as far as Peter knows - has ever even heard rumours of.

He crouches there on the shelf for a while, letting the shock fade as he digests what he’s seeing. Even if the world here is some kind of pocket dimension painted with illusions, Peter can’t say he isn’t impressed. He can’t sense anything out of the ordinary from his surroundings. Well, aside from the dragons.

Which, speaking of-

The abrupt flap of wings from behind him makes him twist around, scooting back from the edge but keeping a guarded distance as a silver-scaled dragon with storm-grey wings corkscrews down from above, landing sideways on the craggy surface of the mountain a few feet above the tunnel’s opening before its wings tuck themselves in, kicking up a bit of a wind in the process. Intelligent violet eyes with slitted pupils survey Peter critically, and then it pushes off, flipping neatly in midair, and even as Peter watches, the dragon begins to shrink, down and down and down, scales receding, wings and tail and snout rippling away like water, and by the time it lands, a man only slightly taller than Peter has taken its place, dressed in what looks like a knight’s armour with a long coat over it, with shaggy dark hair and finned ears and silver scales that dust his cheekbones and curl down his neck.

The same violet eyes peer out at him from a face that looks around Peter’s own age, and when Peter tenses in reaction to the man - dragon? - taking a step forward, the dragon-turned-man immediately stops and raises pale hands that are similarly covered with glittering scales.

He opens his mouth and says… something. Peter doesn’t know the language. The man doesn’t seem deterred, switching twice more before Peter recognizes Latin, although he’s not fluent enough to hold a conversation with it.

“English,” He says at last, relaxing slightly and letting his claws recede. “I speak English.”

The man’s features clear. “Ah, English!” He replies with only a trace of an accent. “Good, that I can do.” He inclines his head. “I am Xivonth, captain of the First Squad of Her Majesty Queen Váltaenya’s Moonstone Division. We have been expecting you for several weeks now, ever since the Draken Door sent out a call.” He pauses and eyes Peter carefully for a moment. “May I ask your name, traveller?”

Peter stares back just as vigilantly, taking in the way Xivonth stands. Military, which, coupled with the knight garb, makes sense. First Squad. Moonstone Division. Probably part of an army, under the command of a queen. Matriarchal? Or does it just not matter for them? But either way, a monarch means a kingdom. So, a dragon kingdom?

“Peter Hale,” Peter offers at last, only a little stiffly. “...Several weeks?”

Xivonth nods. “Indeed. About four weeks now. My squad just happened to be the one flying over this area at this time.”

He gestures up, and Peter follows it to three other dragons - colours ranging from white to a pale dove grey - circling above, sometimes disappearing into the clouds before reappearing again.

“I daresay you won’t even notice the time difference,” Xivonth adds. “Although if you have any further business on Earth, especially if it is urgent, you should still deal with it quickly. We do not allow frequent back-and-forths between the two worlds, but of course, an exception can be made if you have anything else you wish to bring, or if there are goodbyes you wish to say.”

“...And what is the time difference between… the two worlds?” Peter asks flatly. Because it’s been a little over two weeks since he accidentally bled on the cave wall, and yet from what Xivonth is telling him…

“Time does not always pass at the same rate - sometimes, more time passes here than on Earth; other times, more time passes on Earth than here.” The dragon tells him, bland as you please, but there’s something about the tilt of his mouth that suggests amusement.

That actually makes Peter feel a little less wrong-footed. The generously helpful routine was making him irritable.

“Where am I?” He asks at last, because he’s slowly realizing that this isn’t some kind of pocket dimension built inside the mountains of Switzerland. It’s just… too big. Too complex. Too _much,_ to fit into a single enclosed space, no matter how powerful the creator might’ve been. It wouldn’t account for the time difference anyway.

Xivonth does smile this time, a little like approval and a lot like pride as he sweeps an arm out at their surroundings. “Welcome to Astra, the world that sits parallel to your Earth. It is… not exactly another planet, more another plane of existence that was discovered a long time ago. It is home to just about any and every supernatural being once hated and hunted by Earthworlders. You are currently in the Wyvārnyé Kingdom, where the dragon monarchy reigns, but we have our fair share of other species too, including shifters.” He glances at Peter’s stunned visage. “I understand this may all be a little overwhelming for you. I would be happy to answer any questions you have, and if I cannot, then I will find someone who can.” He smiles in a way that flashes just a hint of fang. “So long as your intentions here are peaceful and you truly wish to stay, we will do all we can to help you adjust and see you comfortably settled into our world. We will find you a place to live, if not here, then perhaps with one of the packs in the Drifting Wilds.” His gaze slides over to Peter’s luggage. “It seems you came prepared anyway.”

Peter… has no idea where to start.

_Another world?_ A part of him thinks, even though he’s literally staring at it. _Impossible_.

“The entrance to another world is in _Switzerland?_” Peter croaks, and then quickly clears his throat, almost making a face at how affected he sounds.

For the first time, Xivonth seems to falter, musing something over in silence before admitting, “I am not the most familiar with Earth geography. I only know that the one doorway that dragonkind left behind eons ago, for people like yourself who seek refuge, is one of the few hidden in a mountain. The merfolk’s Door, for example, is underwater. And the fae left nothing at all. Well,” His lip curls a little. “They left their faerie rings, but anyone who falls through those isn’t likely to find a particularly warm welcome waiting for them.”

Peter side-eyes him. “Dragons don’t get along with the fae?”

Xivonth smiles sharply, even toothier than before. “The Wyvārnyé Kingdom recognize no alliance with the Courts. The fae prefer their own company. The only allies they have are the elven kingdoms to the north, and even they go to war with the fae every few decades. Their border disputes are legendary.”

“Elven kingdoms?”

“The elves are an oligarchical nation,” Xivonth explains. “Smaller kingdoms ruled by their lords and ladies.” He tips Peter a considering look. “I can direct you to some books later, if you are interested.”

Books. Some part of Peter wants to leap on the offer. The rest of him kind of just wants to lie down and maybe sleep on his worldview being turned upside-down. Or would that be _worlds_view now?

“May I ask,” Xivonth speaks again because apparently Peter’s been silent too long. “How you found the Door? The last time someone came through was, I believe, almost eight centuries ago, at least for us, and it was an accident. It’s widely believed that outworlders as a whole have long forgotten our existence, and I did not think any of the clues we left behind had survived the sands of time.”

Peter hesitates, raking an eye over Xivonth’s arms, but they’re covered up by his clothes so Peter has no way of knowing if the people here even have soulmates. But then, why wouldn’t they? They were from Earth too, once upon a time. Even if their cultures have evolved differently, surely they would still be born with a Compass.

Besides, finding his soulmate is at least half the reason Peter is here at all.

“I was searching for my soulmate,” He finally answers. “My Compass led me here.”

Xivonth’s eyebrows go up. “Compass?”

Peter’s heart sinks. Do they not have soulmates after all? Is that why Peter’s never came to look for him?

“I do not understand what you mean by Compass,” Xivonth continues, frowning a little now. “We find our soulmates with our Soulmarks. We know we have found our Only when we find the person who bears the same mark.”

Peter feels a little of his anxiety ebb. Okay, so they do have soulmates, and it doesn’t seem like they have anything against the concept either. Just-

“My- The people on Earth,” Peter offers, extending his arm. “All have a Compass that guides us to our soulmate.” He pauses, retracting his arm a little. “Is something wrong?”

Xivonth has gone utterly still, eyes glued to Peter’s forearm. When he finally meets Peter’s gaze again, well, it wasn’t like he was particularly hostile before. He’s been perfectly perfectly polite and even relatively friendly, but now, now he looks at Peter with an extra brightness in his eyes like he’s discovered something amazing.

“You have the prince’s mark!” He bursts out, and all the air promptly leaves Peter’s lungs. “One of the Queen’s nephews! You are Prince Stiles’ mate!”

...And to think, Peter had already concluded that the biggest surprise about his soulmate would be _probable dragon living on a separate plane of existence_.

He seriously needs to sit down.

* * *

He doesn’t get to sit down. At least not right away. Xivonth waits only long enough to ask if Peter would be okay with other people handling his luggage - the dragon seems to know how to interact with werewolves - before he ushers him _up _a flight of stone steps carved into the mountain that Peter didn’t notice previously. When they reach the very top, a strange-looking vehicle is waiting for them. It’s shaped a little like the head of a dragon, with a bronze outer shell, intricately designed, and pale blue glass for the multiple windows. A door opens with a wave of Xivonth’s hand before the dragon himself tips back his head and roars up at his squad. It must mean something because the three dragons above are soon winging off through the sky, one in the lead with the other two flanking them.

“They will finish the patrol,” Xivonth explains as he hefts two of Peter’s bags and ducks into the vehicle. “And I will escort you to the Royal Palace.”

Peter climbs in after him, trying not to stare too much at the holographic displays that immediately spring up in front of Xivonth once he’s sitting in the… pilot’s seat? The interior looks big enough to fit up to four, and the windshield may be tinted blue on the outside but they’re perfectly transparent on the inside.

He eases into the chair beside Xivonth’s. There aren’t any buckles, but their takeoff is so smooth Peter barely even feels it, and… yup, they’re flying.

“This is… an airship?” Peter asks, trying not to sound like a completely ignorant buffoon.

Xivonth nods as he steers them along some invisible path between the towering structures all around them simply by resting two hands on a light blue holographic panel. “One of our smaller ones, yes, and for public daily use. Anyone is allowed to learn once they have reached a certain age.”

So, like a car then. A flying car. That doesn’t seem to be running on any kind of gas.

Right.

“...Could you tell me more about my soulmate?” Peter asks after a long minute of staring dazedly out the window at the vibrant scenery blurring by.

Xivonth seems to ponder over the question for a moment. “His Grace is on the younger end of his generation of hatchlings. His mother, the late Princess Claudíya, was the Queen’s youngest sister. She passed away when His Grace was very young so the Queen is more mother than aunt to Prince Stiles, and he grew up alongside Her Majesty’s youngest daughter, Princess Eulalia. Thick as thieves, those two. Once he hit his majority however, he no longer spent as much time in the Palace. He travels quite a bit - he’s always been a curious one. Clever, with a penchant for mischief, and I don’t believe he’s ever grown out of either of those traits.” He pauses, checking something on the dashboard before offering more quietly, “I would not call Prince Stiles a romantic, per se. But our kind can be quite possessive, and His Grace has always been rather... enamoured with the idea of finding his Only, especially ever since Princess Eulalia found hers a little while back, twenty years ago.” Peter suppresses a twitch. “And while it is hardly a competition, I daresay His Grace has sometimes felt lonely without someone of his own.”

Xivonth pauses again, this time to slant a thoughtful look at Peter. “He has been searching for you amongst the wolf shifters for fifty years or so now. It never occurred to any of us that you would be an outworlder.”

Peter… says nothing, not right away, and Xivonth seems content to leave him to his thoughts as he steers them smoothly towards the horizon. It’s just come sunset, Peter thinks, and streaks of pale amethyst are starting to stain the sky.

Fifty years. Obviously, that’s not very long for a dragon, and of course, time moves differently between this world and his, it has to, for… _Stiles_ to have even had a Com- no, a Soulmark, back then. Because apparently they don’t have Compasses in this world.

Except-

“You said Stiles’... Soulmark matches mine,” Peter says at last. Xivonth gives him a fleeting sideways glance, and belatedly, Peter wonders if maybe he should’ve tacked on his soulmate’s title. That would be… strange. God, his soulmate’s _royalty,_ what even. But Xivonth doesn’t reprimand him, and if he disapproves, he hides it well, not even his scent gives him away, so Peter continues without correcting himself, “So his should have a compass too. Didn’t he ever wonder what the compass was pointing to? I mean the arrow moves. Doesn’t it?”

Xivonth blinks, something perplexed furrowing his brow. He seems to mull over Peter’s words for a moment, and then he taps a few buttons on the screens before removing his hands entirely. The ship continues on, veering left without prompt.

_Auto-pilot,_ Peter’s inner fantasy sci-fi obsession supplies helpfully.

“I have only seen His Grace’s Soulmark a handful of times,” Xivonth tells him, turning to face him more directly. “And yes, the compass’ arrow moves. It is a compass, that is what compasses do.” He frowns, and the scales above his eyebrows ripple oddly with the expression. “Why do you make it sound as if this is something… meaningful? You mentioned Compasses earlier. Do all your kind have Compass Soulmarks?”

He looks even more confused now, and Peter is right there with him. He hesitates for a second, and then tugs his sleeve up again to show his Compass. “Everyone in my world is born with a Compass. That’s what we call them, more than Soulmarks. They’re supposed to point towards wherever our soulmate is, once they’re born. That’s how I found my way here. I followed it, and it pointed me to your Door.”

Xivonth studies Peter’s arm long enough for discomfort to settle in, and the dragon seems to notice because he his expression takes on a slightly apologetic cast, although he continues glancing at the wolf design for several more seconds.

“Well, I can assure you that not everyone is born with a… Compass, here,” Xivonth explains. “Not even most, at least from those I know or have heard of. Of the entire royal family, Prince Stiles is the only one with a compass in his Soulmark.” He looks at Peter’s arm again. “...You have very fine control, to keep your Soulmark steady for so long.”

At this point, Peter feels like they’re having two different conversations at the same time. “What?”

Not his most eloquent moment.

Xivonth peers at him this time, and something like understanding dawns on his face. “Do your people’s Soulmarks- Compasses-- do they not move?”

“The arrow moves,” Peter says immediately, but he gets it a moment after that. “But… not the whole thing.” He blinks at Xivonth. “Are you saying your Soulmarks move?”

In response, Xivonth tilts his head a little, and a moment later, a burst of colour spills up from under the collar of his jacket and up the length of his neck to settle over a good three-quarters of his face, where it remains for Peter to examine. Unlike Peter’s own Compass however, it never quite stops moving.

It’s a bird of some kind, its gold eyes fierce and focused, its wings spread wide and beating constantly as if to stay in one place, and its feathers are the same shimmering silver as Xivonth’s scales. But its talons - longer and sharper than any bird Peter knows - drip red with blood, and they’re clenched around the blade of a sword that’s currently bisecting Xivonth’s face.

Xivonth smiles faintly, his expression almost serene even as his violet eyes flash with some inner fire, and Peter can smell a deep and steady pride on him.

“My Only is a valkyrie,” Xivonth reveals. “And like me, she is a captain, Third Squad of the Garnet Division. So you can see how our Soulmark fits us very well.”

He blinks, and his Soulmark rushes off his face again in a flurry of feathers, disappearing under his uniform and leaving his face clear once more.

“That is the way our Soulmarks work,” Xivonth expounds. “They are a combination of images and colours that represent every party in a soul-match.” He nods at Peter’s arm. “So, the Mark you share with Prince Stiles, if I were to hazard a guess, represents a union between a wolf shifter and a creature of fire, in this case obviously a dragon. But both wolves and fire have many meanings, some that might fit your temperament and definitely fit quite a few aspects of His Grace’s temperament.”

Peter stares at his Compass. His _Soulmark._ Even in his world, each design that comes with a Compass is well-known to represent their corresponding soul-match, so it isn’t as if Xivonth is telling him anything too crazy. And yet, Peter still feels a little off-balance, and a little like he’s actually looking at his Compass- his _Soulmark,_ for the very first time in his life.

“And the compass?” He asks at last, but even as he speaks, he thinks he knows.

“A long or difficult journey, perhaps,” Xivonth offers. “Adventures into the unknown, determination, perseverance, a destination that has always been waiting for you.” He shrugs lightly. “Soulmarks can have many interpretations. But even from the short time I have known you, I do believe you fit every definition one can think of. And I _know_ they fit Prince Stiles.”

Peter doesn’t quite know how to respond to that so he busies himself with pulling down his sleeve again. Xivonth doesn’t seem to mind, switching off auto-pilot instead, probably to give Peter an illusion of privacy.

Peter can appreciate that. He needs a moment to just… breathe, anyway. He’s always been adaptable but he doubts anyone would disagree with him if he said everything so far has been a lot to take in.

But, Soulmarks. Soulmates. He thinks some part of him - no matter how much he hoped, and then how many times he told himself he didn’t care either way - was still absolutely convinced that his soulmate didn’t want him, and that was why they never came to find him.

But this. Soulmarks instead of Compasses, an intrinsically different system of soul-matches. There would be no reason for his soulmate to think to follow where the compass pointed, especially since their entire Soulmark would’ve been constantly moving.

And if Xivonth is to be believed, Peter’s soulmate has been looking for him for fifty years. Long lifespans or not, fifty years is still _fifty years._

Peter exhales a very careful breath. It still feels shaky as it swells up his throat but at least it doesn’t come out that way.

_A destination that has always been waiting for you._

Peter has never placed much stock in fate. He was fated to be a left hand, fated to take the brunt of his pack’s disdain and dismissal and dirty work, fated to be the villain in every scenario because his beliefs and morals have never aligned with the majority’s. Fate’s fucked him over too many times to count.

But he’s also apparently fated to be the soulmate of a dragon prince from another world, someone who isn’t opposed to giving them a chance after all, someone who_ has_ been searching for him, and… well.

Whether or not they work out is yet to be seen. But to _know_ that he’s never been as unwanted as people have indicated to him over and over again, through words or actions, for most of his life-- that feeling curls up warm and fuzzy and new in his chest, and for the first time since he clawed his way back from the dead, nothing of him regrets it.

“We’re here,” Xivonth says, jolting Peter out of his thoughts. His attention focuses on the present again, and he can feel his own eyes widen as they take a last turn past a grove of towering trees, only to come out the other side to a magnificent palace of gleaming white stone and looming spires that disappear into the clouds above, decorated with thriving florae and sparkling aqueducts everywhere.

“Welcome to the Royal Palace,” Xivonth announces, and Peter can’t even blame him for the note of smug satisfaction in his voice. “You’re in luck - Her Majesty insists the whole family must gather at least twice a year for the Summer and Winter Solstice celebrations, so Prince Stiles will be home sometime tomorrow. Before you meet him however,” Xivonth smiles, more amusement this time than anything else. “Most of the family is already home. I am sure they will all be thrilled to meet the man destined to bond with Prince Stiles.”

Peter gives him the flat look that deserves. Xivonth grins, just a little, as he manoeuvres their ship to what looks to be a landing dock.

Peter rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat as the ships descends. Meeting the family first, huh? Well, fine. Never let it be said Peter Hale does anything the conventional way. Besides, it’s never too early to stack the deck in his own favour, and nothing says an ace like charming the pants off one’s soulmate’s family.

* * *

His plans to charm his potential in-laws get derailed before he even starts, mostly because he gets abducted before he even enters the room.

Xivonth leads him through the palace, and everything is ridiculously big, obviously to accommodate the dragons, several of which Peter passes as they make their way through the Palace. They’re all different shapes and sizes, obviously guards of some kind, but they bow out of Xivonth’s way so they must be lower on the food chain.

They’re big, and the Palace is even bigger. Peter knew this from up in the sky, but the place feels twice as huge when he’s walking through the towering archways and down the expansive staircases.

They stop briefly in front of a large set of double doors - officer barracks, Xivonth informs him - that Xivonth disappears through for several minutes before coming back with a necklace for Peter. There’s a talisman of some kind on it, decorated with tiny sapphires, and - once he gets a closer look - Peter is surprised to realize the gemstones actually form a series of runes he’s not familiar with.

“A translation amulet,” Xivonth tells him. “The standard here is Draconian.” He nods at the necklace. “That will translate Draconian speech into the language that whoever is wearing it is most familiar with, and likewise translate that language back into Draconian. So English, in your case. It is not a widely spoken language here. The Queen is familiar with it, but I thought that might help in future conversations with others in the Palace.”

Oh, thank the moon. Peter had already resigned himself to being shut out of conversations, purposefully or otherwise, just by dint of not speaking anything native in this world. At least not until he learns, and he’ll definitely be learning if he has anything to say about it, but that still takes time.

“Thank you,” He says as he slips it on. The words feel foreign on his tongue. He’s not had much cause to be thankful in a long time.

Xivonth inclines his head with a slight smile, then gestures for him to follow. “I will take you to Her Majesty now.”

Fifteen minutes later, Peter gets abducted, through no fault of his own. One moment Xivonth is telling him to wait in what looks to be one of many entrance halls; the next moment something at least five times his size with dark blue scales has snatched him up and whisked him away.

Several dizzying minutes - during which he only has time to wonder if dragons eat werewolves - later, he’s dumped in a heap onto some kind of balcony, and before he even finishes sorting out which way is up and which is down, the dark blue dragon has already landed on the banister. A moment after that, it shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until a girl with long dark hair and green eyes and pale skin is sitting there instead. She’s wearing a fancy-looking dress, all white frills and soft orange layers and a bodice the colour of her scales that pulls it all together. Her hair is separated into two tails via a combination of blue ribbons and orange gemstone ornaments, complete with matching earrings and lacy gloves and stockings and delicate flats.

All in all, she looks exactly the way Peter would imagine a princess in a fantasy world to be like, which probably means he’s been kidnapped by a member of his soulmate’s family.

Wonderful. This relationship is off to a fantastic start.

He dusts himself off as he rises to his full height, and then he smiles a smile that would be passably polite if not for the teeth he bares. “I don’t appreciate being carried off like a sack of rice.”

The girl - she honestly doesn’t look older than twenty - smiles right back at him, dainty and pretty in a way that almost hides the fangs behind it. “And I don’t appreciate my cousin’s soulmate taking so damn long to show himself. I guess that means we’re even.”

Peter gives her a cold assessing look. “You expect me to drop everything else in my life just to find him?”

The girl arches an eyebrow so condescending it’s like looking into a mirror for a moment. “I _expect_ you to have a good enough reason for why you couldn’t even send a missive.” Peter’s eyes narrow, and the girl’s other eyebrow joins her first. The scales that crown her forehead glitter under the sunlight. “You even had the gall to _die_ on him. Stiles almost burnt himself up until you suddenly came back, and _still_ you couldn’t at least let him know you were alright? We even offered gold by the thousands for a simple letter confirming your continued wellbeing.”

Peter blinks. Wait-

“Well?” The girl demands imperiously. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“...Where exactly do you think I came from?” Peter asks incredulously.

The girl frowns at him. “Does it matter? I overheard Xivonth tell Mother that Stiles’ soulmate has finally arrived, and you’re the only foreign face in our halls today, and you look to be in relatively good health, so unless you’ve been locked up in the finest dungeons in Astra for the past fifty years-”

_Ah, she doesn’t know,_ Peter says, and only considers not telling her otherwise for a moment. It probably wouldn’t be great for future relations.

“You must not have heard,” Peter offers dryly. “I came here from Earth.” That sounds strange even to himself. Possibly especially to himself. “I’m an… outworlder, I think you call it? I didn’t even find your Draken Door until around two weeks ago. I arrived about two hours ago, and Xivonth was the one who met me.”

He doesn’t say anything about his world’s Compasses. Even if she asks, he has no interest in delving into all the reasons why he didn’t go on his soul-search until very recently. The only one who has any right to those answers is his soulmate, and even then, Peter isn’t inclined to share until he actually gets to know the man. Dragon. Or boy? This girl said “Mother” when referring to the Queen, and she looks young, and Xivonth said Stiles grew up with the Queen’s youngest daughter.

Dragon lifespans is probably one of the first things he should look up when he gets the chance. Information about dragons in general seems a good idea. Actually-

“What did _you_ mean by burnt himself up?” Peter asks, equally demanding. “Is that a dragon thing?”

The girl is staring at him blankly, probably her version of genuine surprise, but upon hearing Peter’s question, she shakes her head a little before shrugging with deliberate carelessness. “Dragons almost always die with their mates. If they don’t, it’s usually because they have children they care about enough to stick around for. Obviously Stiles didn’t, so when you died, he lost control of his flame core, and it started burning him from the inside out.” Her lips purse. “It was very close. If you hadn’t come back when you did, we would’ve lost him.”

She pauses, raking a sharp eye over him. “You’re serious? You’re an outworlder?”

Peter nods curtly, mind still stalling at this new piece of information about his soulmate.

(He could’ve come back with his Compass - his Soulmark - greyed out and faded. He could’ve come back without even the choice of one day finding his soulmate, all because he’d waited too long and hadn’t much cared about his own life either at that point so long as his family’s murderers paid with their blood.

He’s… not sure how he feels about it, only that it’s a little like he missed a step while walking down the stairs.)

“Hm, I suppose that’s an okay reason.” The girl stares at him for a moment longer before something about her smooths out, like invisible hackles lowering to rest. She inclines her head. “My apologies then. I jumped to conclusions.”

It’s Peter’s turn to raise his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected royalty to concede so easily.

The girl smirks like she knows where his thoughts have gone, and then she slips off the banister to land cat-light on her feet, her dress swishing elegantly around her.

“Stiles is my best friend,” She continues, and something about her voice sounds friendlier, warmer, even though she’d hardly been particularly cold before. “We grew up together. My name is Eulalia, third in line for the throne, after my sister and brother.” She moves forward until she’s only a few feet away, and like this, she’s actually shorter than Peter by almost half a head. It doesn’t make the expectant look she levels at him any less forceful. “And your name is?”

Peter studies her for a few seconds and wonders if his soulmate will look like her. Somehow, it doesn’t fit the impression he gets from the Soulmark on his arm.

“Peter,” He says at last. “Peter Hale, werewolf.” And then adds rather sardonically, “A pleasure to meet you.”

Eulalia tips another pretty smile at him and doesn’t apologize again. “Maybe. But at least you have spine. You’ll need it, to be Stiles’ mate.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle like she wants to laugh, but she says nothing more, sidestepping Peter instead to glide her way indoors. “Come along, I should probably take you back to the throne room.” She tosses a sly glance back at him. “Unless you want me to fly you there instead?”

Peter rolls his eyes and saunters after her. “No thank you. I don’t take rides from people who fly like drunk pigeons.”

He’ll take the hilarious flash of indignant speechlessness that settles over Eulalia’s face for a moment as a win.

* * *

There is something about Her Majesty Queen Váltaenya that reminds Peter of Talia in her best moments. A regal sort of pride that they both wore like a much-loved cloak, and a penetrating stare that left whoever they looked at without any doubts as to why no one dares fuck with those under their protection.

Physically however, Queen Váltaenya has brown eyes lit up from the inside like sunlight through whiskey and a cascade of red hair so dark it almost looks black, standing out all the more against her pale skin even when braided back the way it is. Eulalia must take mostly after her father.

She’s not wearing a crown, but maybe dragons don’t? On the other hand, she’s also dressed in a shirt and trousers and boots designed for easy movement, no jewelry in sight, and Peter doesn’t actually realize she’s the Queen at first. They bump into her in one of the maze-like halls just as she’s striding out of a room, a bow in one clawed hand and a quiver of arrows over her shoulder.

“There you are,” She says briskly, not even slowing down as she sweeps past them like a storm. “Eulie, darling, run along and kick Bal out of whatever tree he’s napping in, would you? It’s late afternoon; he has no business still sleeping when his patrol begins in an hour.”

Eulalia grins, her expression positively gleeful even if she tries to hide it behind something more demure. “Yes, Mama, I’ll make sure he’s properly ready well before his patrol starts.”

She skips off with a distracted wave in Peter’s direction, and Peter is promptly left at the mercy of the reigning monarch of the dragon kingdom.

“Come along, Mr. Hale,” The woman calls back without breaking her stride or turning around. “We’ll have this conversation outside.”

And Peter really doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow.

* * *

_Thwack!_

_Thwack!_

_Thwack!_

Three arrows, three bullseyes. The Argents would’ve loved her. If they could get past the dragon bit of course. Peter wouldn’t bet on it.

“Will you be staying?” is the Queen’s first question as she notches another arrow. The archery range is vast and green, and Peter is pretty sure the targets are at least three times farther away than they would be for regular humans.

He stands off to the side, gaze avid on the Queen’s profile. She doesn’t smell hostile, but she isn’t playing up a graciously welcoming but authoritative I’m-in-charge mien either.

Talia would’ve. She never would’ve been caught dead in casual clothes if an allied pack was visiting, let alone a complete stranger. Váltaenya on the other hand doesn’t seem to care about putting on airs, but there’s also no mistaking the aura around her, something heavy and powerful but perfectly calm, something like standing in the presence of a predator that you know won’t attack unless purposefully provoked.

Peter wonders if it’s the dragon in her, and the fact that she must be at least centuries old.

“You aren’t going to ask what my intentions are first?” He counters. It’s probably not a good idea to answer the Queen with his usual amount of evasion just to receive answers of his own, but at the same time, they’re going to have problems if they expect him to be bowing all over the place. Best to show that particular hand early on. Besides, if nothing else, Váltaenya doesn’t give him the impression that she’ll throw him into a wall - or roast him, figuratively or literally - for speaking his mind. That’s already a step-up from the two years he spent under Derek and Scott’s Alpha tenures.

Váltaenya plants another arrow into her target as she replies bluntly, “I shall care about your intentions once I know you will be around long enough to see them through.”

Ah. Well, fair enough.

“I brought everything I own with me,” He admits after a moment of contemplation. “And I have no friends or family-” _-who would care even if I was violently murdered._ “-I plan on seeing again. I came prepared to stay.”

Váltaenya releases one last arrow before turning a piercing gaze on him. “And what exactly made you decide to find your soulmate now and not before?”

Peter shrugs with careful nonchalance. “I had responsibilities towards my pack, and then I had some personal business to take care of. I didn’t have time until now.”

Silence follows that vague explanation, and Váltaenya’s unblinking gaze feels particularly probing for a minute, so much so that even Peter gets the urge to fidget a little. He doesn’t, even if he does tense a bit, and eventually Váltaenya eases up and even smirks at him with something like approval.

“You have spine,” She observes, unknowingly parroting her daughter. “Good.”

Peter cocks his head. “Because Stiles likes that?”

Váltaenya hums noncommittally and pulls another arrow from her quiver. “Because Stiles has the tendency to run roughshod over anyone who lets him. Because soulmate or not, you will bore him if you cannot stand on equal footing with him.” Her next smile is sharp enough to cut. “My nephew is what you might call a force of nature. All dragons are in some way, but especially so for him. I suppose you will find that out for yourself very soon though.”

She turns and notches the arrow and lets it fly, all in one fluid motion. It hits dead center yet again.

Peter watches for a while. It’s surprisingly soothing despite his distaste for the sport. Váltaenya never misses, every movement flowing into the next without a hitch, claws never catching on the fletching. Belatedly, Peter realizes the quiver is replenishing its own arrows, so the Queen never runs out.

He’s… not accustomed to magic being used so freely, for supernatural creatures to walk about - or fly about - so openly. Even back when the Hale Pack was strong and stable and in their own territory, they had to be careful. There are no wolves in California so they could never howl too loudly, they had to watch their strength around normal people, and make sure they were never overly emotional. All werewolf children weren’t even allowed to attend public school until they could adequately pretend to be human, which meant most of them were homeschooled until middle school. Derek was so bad at it that he wasn’t allowed out until high school.

On hindsight, that might explain some things about the boy.

He looks over at Váltaenya again, and then remarks, “This is a very short interrogation.”

Váltaenya glances at him, a flicker of amusement lurking at the edges of her features. “Have I any need to interrogate you?” She wings another arrow across the field. “You are alone, in a new world you are entirely unfamiliar with, surrounded by dragons. And it is a long way to travel just to harm my nephew or a kingdom you had no prior knowledge of, so I am disinclined to believe such things of you.” She finally lowers her bow and turns to face Peter fully. “You are entitled to your own privacy. I may be Queen, but unless you prove to be a threat to my people, it is not my place to discover all your secrets.” She smirks. “I shall leave that to Stiles.”

_Stiles._ From what Xivonth and Eulalia and now Váltaenya has said, Peter’s soulmate… honestly sounds like someone Peter would very much enjoy meeting.

He hopes Stiles will live up to everything he’s heard so far.

“Now then,” Váltaenya continues briskly as she begins packing up. “My children and siblings are all here already but they are also busy with the Summer Solstice preparations so it is unlikely you will meet them today, Eulie aside. Tomorrow however, the last of us-” She casts a fleeting significant look at Peter. “-will arrive, and we always make time for dinner together when that happens. You are welcome to join us then, if you wish.”

Peter nods, and then asks carefully, “But I will meet Stiles before that?”

Something softens in Váltaenya’s expression, just for a moment. “Yes you will. He usually gets in early and sleeps until noon. But I would be very surprised if Eulie does not ambush him the moment she knows he’s back, and… well.” She smirks again. “Do try not to be too surprised if you get kidnapped again.”

Peter suppresses a sigh. Is this another dragon thing then? Or a family thing? Is this something he’s going to have to get used to?

(He ignores the part of him that thinks he wouldn’t mind so much if it’s his soulmate taking him for a ride. So long as he’s gentler than his cousin about it.

…At least in one fashion anyway.)

“A room will have been made up for you by now,” Váltaenya is saying as they begin making their way off the range. “And your luggage should be waiting for you there. You have had a long journey so I’m sure you would prefer some time to yourself. I will have someone send up dinner for you in about an hour, if that’s alright?”

Peter nods again. He _is_ hungry, now that he thinks about it, and he definitely wouldn’t mind some time alone, just to… _think._

Xivonth is waiting for them just inside the door. He bows to the Queen, and a moment of hesitation later, Peter dips his head stiffly. He won’t scrape and bow to anyone, but he’s also in a kingdom whose ruler could probably make things very difficult for him. He can at least compromise. Besides, Váltaenya hasn’t rubbed him the wrong way yet, and he has no desire to alienate the ruling monarch for no reason.

Váltaenya doesn’t seem to care. She nods at both of them, takes an extra second to look Peter over one more time, and then she takes off to wherever she needs to be, each step more prowl than walk now that Peter is watching.

“To your room then?” Xivonth prompts, and Peter turns to follow.

The captain leaves him outside a set of doors, one of many along an expansive corridor. A guest wing maybe.

“I have work to get back to so I must leave you here,” Xivonth tells him. “But if you have need of anything, you can call one of the servants to help you. I believe there were phones on Earth?” Upon Peter’s confirmation, Xivonth nods, satisfied. “There is one inside your room that should work much the same way. Everything is labelled so it shouldn’t be difficult to figure out.”

A trumpeting roar interrupts him, and it must mean something because Xivonth glances sharply to the right before nodding once more at Peter. “I must go. Dinner will be brought up to you in an hour.” He pauses. “I don’t expect to see much of you in the following few days, if only because Prince Stiles will be home, and I’m sure you’re looking forward to meeting him. But when you have time later, and I am off-duty, perhaps we can meet up for a hunt or a meal.” He takes a step back, his smile easy and making it clear he doesn’t expect a definite answer from Peter. “You can bring His Grace, and I can introduce you to my mate.”

Another roar rumbles in the distance, and Xivonth sighs like he wants to roll his eyes but has too much discipline for it. “Have a good evening, Peter.”

Peter manages a nod back, and then watches him go until the dragon is out of sight.

Did he just…

...make a friend?

He shakes off the baffled feeling that comes with that thought-- Xivonth is probably just being responsible, since he was the one who found Peter and brought him in, and he’ll want to know how Peter is settling in. The dragon isn’t so bad anyway. And it’s always good to make as many contacts as possible when you’re the odd one out.

Mystery solved, he sets it aside and reaches for the ornate handle. The doors are still bigger than most doors on Earth, but they’re also noticeably smaller than most of the ones he’s seen so far. Maybe this is the guest wing for smaller-sized guests.

* * *

‘Room’ is a bit of a misnomer. ‘Apartment’ is closer to the truth. When he opens the doors, he walks into an actual living area that branches off in two different directions. One hall leads to the two bedrooms, the other to a small kitchenette, a bathroom, and what looks to be an office at the end. There’s a balcony off the living room, and a second one attached to the master bedroom, and each bedroom includes a bathroom of its own.

Honestly, the place is only a little more extravagant than Peter’s old penthouse home from before the fire, so that isn’t too hard to adjust to. No, the most jarring thing is how even with everything sized way down - the place definitely can’t fit an adult dragon in dragon form - it’s still twice as roomy as any place Peter has ever lived in.

He can’t complain though. He finds his luggage stacked neatly against one wall, the foreign scents on them minimal. He can’t find the motivation to unpack though - he doesn’t even know if he’s staying in these rooms long-term - and instead he collapses into an armchair that could easily fit one more of him and still be perfectly comfortable. But that just gives him more room to sprawl out, and then he just slumps there and stares up at the ceiling as he tries his best to wrap his mind around the fantasy rollercoaster his life has clearly decided to hop onto without his permission.

He’s not religious but _Jesus Fucking Christ_. He’s seen a lot of weird things in his life, but he doesn’t think any of it can top this.

He turns his head a little to stare out the windows. Shapes that can’t be anything but more dragons fly past in the distance as the setting sun continues to paint the sky purple.

A slightly hysterical laugh hiccups from his throat. Gods, his _life._

He blows out a breath and calms, but a faint smile he barely notices remains on his face as he tugs up his sleeve and peers at his Com- his Soulmark.

This place. These people. He hasn’t really seen much of anything yet. He hasn’t even met his soulmate yet.

But he finds himself looking forward to it in a way he’s never looked forward to anything before.

_A new beginning,_ he recalls, and he hopes it will be a good one.


End file.
